


Deadpool Thinks Donald Trump Is French For Moodkill

by Epervier



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Bathing/Washing, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Bromance to Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, Denial, Flirting, Growing Levels Of Intimacy, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Gore, Pining Wade Wilson, Protectiveness, Reluctantly Caring Peter Parker, Sexual Tension, Some dom/sub undertones, peter is a tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 01:43:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8231770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epervier/pseuds/Epervier
Summary: “Don’t fry your pretty little head. No homo. This is a one hundred percent bromantic bath between two bros who are secure enough in their masculinity to flaunt their junk in front of each other and give the UST the manly one-finger salute because they are bros and it’s totally Not-Like-That. I get it.”Peter understands most of that gibberish, and the rueful little smile helps him get the gist of the rest. It doesn’t escape his notice that only one of them is ‘flaunting his junk’ as DP so elegantly put it, and that there is probably an insult to his masculinity somewhere in there.…he may have deserved that.He smiles, because yeah, okay, this whole thing does sound pretty ridiculous when you put it like that.“Okay.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Punctuation was murdered during the making of this fic. I'm sure a few periods and caps are still hanging around where they shouldn't, but if you find them please don't tell my beta ;)
> 
> I owe beetle gross demonstrations of veneration for beating (beta-ing?) some sense into this mess, and for two thirds of Deadpool's tastes in cartoons. She deserves all the love, go give her some. 
> 
> Ignore the title, it makes sense at some point.

The bathroom’s walls are damp with condensation, the only noises occasionally breaking the silence being a splash of water as one of them moves a limb, and Deadpool’s breathing, a little labored.

 

“You okay?” He whispers against Deadpool’s skull. It’s been resting on his shoulder ever since they settled like this, back to front, “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

 

In response, Deadpool shifts a little, burrowing his nose in the space between Peter’s neck and collarbone, in what is probably an attempt at hiding, conscious or not. He’s taken off the mask. It was one of the rules they had set for doing this, after all.

 

It’s far from the first time he’s showing his mug in front of Peter, but that was when they were eating takeout after missions and this is him exposing a lot more skin, making himself vulnerable. All the while, Peter has been rubbing small circles on his temples, Deadpool’s hairless skin smooth and a little alien under his touch. Now, he moves his ministrations to the man’s jaw, slowly working his way down to his shoulders, kneading at the tension he finds there.

 

“I’ve died and gone to heaven.” Deadpool whines against him, hips bucking up. Peter does him the favor of ignoring that. “Wait, no. I can’t be in heaven, you’ve still got this _thing_ on.”

 

He pulls at the elastic waist of Peter’s boxers, trying and failing to make them smack back into place because he’s that petty. Peters stops long enough to bat at his hand to have it shy away. It does so with a dramatic arc. “This is Hell.” Deadpool concludes.

 

Peter hums against the top of his head. “ ‘tis not so bad,” he mumbles, ruining his effect with a chuckle.

 

Deadpool pouts, scandalized. “ ‘tis just that bad, actually!”

 

He’s working himself into a mood, Peter can tell, hips thrusting again in a provocative move that he resolutely ignores, instead reaching and running a hand down Deadpool’s face. It surprises him enough to make him freeze, giving Peter time to grope for the soap next to them.

 

He deposits it in Deadpool’s hands with an instruction to ‘lather’. The man groans.

 

“You’re the worst,” he laments, eliciting a full-body laugh from Peter. Still, lather he does, with the desperation of a dying man. Peter eventually has to take pity on the bar of soap and rescue it from him. Then, he gets a good look at it and scrunches his nose in distaste. The thing looks to have escaped straight out from a 50’s ad. It’s massive, sick-brown colored and covered in smears he tries very hard not to identify, before remembering that it was in Deadpool’s hands seconds ago. This is fresh blood and pus he’s staring at. His throat produces a sound not unlike that of an injured animal as he almost drops the soap.

 

“Slippery,” his mind supplies, for Deadpool’s benefit. The humming sound he receives in response only moderately settles his nerves. Somehow the reality of Deadpool’s open sores leaking out and into the tub is only hitting him now, and Peter struggles not to glance down at the water to see if it is pink, or _oily_.

 

Worrying about something that unhygienic coming into contact with some particular parts of his own body is really not helping. _Get your act together, Parker. This is only blood, you’ve seen worse before._ This is what he wanted. This is them, sharing a bath to show Deadpool that he isn’t repulsed by his skin, and he’s not going to ruin it by freaking out.

 

“So…” Peter says, in an overly light tone. It sounds strained to his own ears. Deadpool only hums again to let him know that he’s listening. His eyes, Peter notices, are closed.

 

He clears his throat. “So where did you get this soap, anyway? It looks pretty…” Peter fishes for a word “…new.” That’s one word for it. ‘Good for knocking someone out’ are others. Nervously, he starts lathering Deadpool’s arms.

 

“Wha’, this old thing?” Deadpool snorts, “Nah. t‘was here when I moved in, methinks. I wouldn’t know.”

 

 _You wouldn’t?_ Peter wonders, with a hint of frantic desperation.

 

“Hnn.” Is all he says instead. He scrubs a little harder.

 

“Ugh, stop.”

 

Sheepishly, Peter notices the skin beneath the soap is now turning an angry red. “Sorry.” He mumbles, while Deadpool shifts, sending him a _look_. Peter suddenly feels bad for obsessing over hygiene issues – how many times a year does this man bathe? Or even shower? – and rubs Deadpool’s arms to soothe…someone. He has no idea who, by now. They tense a little under his touch, and he smiles to himself. Tickles. Right, the scar tissue. He should have guessed.

 

“We can stop, you know.” Deadpool tells him, offhandedly. There’s a knowing glint in his eyes, that Peter finds he doesn’t care for.

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

Deadpool scoffs, rolling his eyes, but settles back in his lap. Peter open his legs a little wider to make room for him, and for a moment, they just stay like this as Peter starts running the soap down Deadpool’s shoulders and arms again, then along his back, only more gently this time. The scars are continuously rearranging themselves against him, a barely there feeling like…like tiny snakes slithering under the surface of the skin. It’s weird. But not completely unpleasant.

 

“You’re bleeding.” So of course he has to go and blurt out the one thing he didn’t want to.

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yeah,” Peter replies, ducking his head. That was pretty stupid. “Do they hurt? The scars?”

 

 _Is the water too hot?_ Suddenly crosses his mind. It would be just like Deadpool not to mention something like this even though it’s making him uncomfortable. The man bitches about the most nonsensical things, but when it comes to physical pain, it’s like he doesn’t care. He knows firsthand that Deadpool tends to be a giant mother hen for the people he’s fond of, like his daughter. Like Peter (he’s aware that DP’s feelings for him are not platonic in nature. He’s not _that_ stupid).

 

Deadpool is actually a surprisingly doting man when he’s not on the clock, and it upsets Peter to think that his friend doesn’t apply the same level of care to himself.

 

“…They don’t that much, actually. Shut your trap – sorry, not you. I mean, pain just…I dunno, Webs, it’s just here. We get hurt all the time, we don’t notice that shit anymore. Mostly it’s just itchy.”

 

“Itchy.” Peter parrots back. Is the soap even fit for sensitive skin? Somehow he doubts it.

 

“Like, I had the hugest motherfucking rash on my left bun the other day? T’was like the killer whale of rashes or somet – I _know_ those buggers are not the biggest whales, what do you take me for? I was saying it for effect, grow a brain – shut _up_ – Look, killer whales are just cooler, okay? _Fuck you._ ”

 

“The scars, DP. They itch?”

 

“Uh? Oh! Yeah, they do. They’re always moving around and eating up the cancer, so. Lots of scratching, this one gets,” he says, pointing at himself. “You should see me when I regrow both hands. Actually, don’t, it ain’t a pretty sight for ya, Petey. No hands, no scratching.”

 

“Hm. So your scars itch because your body is trying to resolve the problem but can never completely get rid of it. I guess that makes sense.”

 

Inside, though, Peter is already running a mental list of ways to, well, not eradicate the physical discomfort, not completely since treating the cause isn’t an option, but at least attenuate the effects themselves. He knows there are some soaps and lotions on the market, specializing in just the type of skin problems Deadpool’s body displays. Not to that _extreme_ an extent, but sensitive skin types and scars definitely have options in terms of treatment. It’s worth a little investigating, at least.

 

The bath is another option, even though it’s useless without the right products and precautions – Peter makes a mental note of asking Deadpool about his preferred temperature for the water, as well as whether his skin actually suffers no detrimental effect from whatever he subjects it to. As proved before – well, Deadpool doesn’t mind the pain. But his epidermis does, Peter is getting more and more convinced of that.

 

“Oh, I know this face. This is your nerd face. Earth to Petey!”

 

Deadpool pokes him in the nose, giggling, and Peter elbows him.

 

“Stop that. All of them are my nerd faces, in case you hadn’t noticed. This is who I am. A nerd, with a face.”

 

“Aww,” Deadpool coos, “yes he is, referencing his Daddy, thinking we don’t notice what he did there. Or maybe the author got lucky with an unintentional pun? It’s still the morning for her. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. Anyway, Petey, that’s not what I meant. I meant, this is the face you make when your ickle nerdy brain is all away in Nerdland, thinking complicated thoughts. I can almost see the itty-bitty cogs turning in there. It’s so cute! And a little hot…”

 

“Oh my god, stop poking my face.”

 

He’s not even going to address everything that is wrong with the nonsense Deadpool’s mouth just spouted. This way lay madness.

 

“But it’s so cute! So pokable! Yes, Yellow, I’m surprised the grammar corrector thinks it’s a word as well. Pokey-pokey-poo!”

 

The index finger bumping him in the nose is the last straw. Peter snaps, shoving Deadpool away, only to be shoved back with an angry push, and before long they’re upside down in the tub, water sloshing absolutely everywhere and the both of them wrestling for dominance, 230 pounds of wriggly Canadian trying to park their ass onto his back and slapping blindly at Peter’s face in a perfect impersonation of a teenaged girl, high-pitched shrieks included. Peter snorts water down his nostril at some point, he’s laughing so hard.

 

“Ok. Stop –”

 

“No stopping! Scream for me, Baby Boy!”

 

“Ugh – that was my toe – look, wait a minute, truce, okay?” He manages to grab a flailing limb – a left arm – and squeezes. With a bit of spider-force behind it, because he’s not above resorting to that. The effect is immediate.

 

“Wait, did I hurt you?” He blinks at the retreating hands.

 

“Do cis het dudes give good head?” Deadpool quips back, fast as lightning.

 

It throws Peter for a loop. “I – uh. I – I don’t know?”

 

“The answer is _no_. They suck at it! Ha! Get it? Suck!”

 

“So I didn’t hurt you?” He attempts to clarify.

 

“This is what you get from that? Holy flying hot dog, Petey. Where did I go wrong with your education? Also, no, you big ninny, you didn’t hurt me. What the fuck kind of whiny loser do you take me for? Dave Lizewski? Ha!”

 

“O-kayyyyy…Then will you explain to me why you – _are you hard?_ ”

 

“I don’t know, Petey, you tell me.” Deadpool says, spreading his legs and angling his arms away from what he was visibly trying to hide, before Peter had to go and put his foot in it. “How does it look to you? D’you reckon I put on weight, honey?”

 

But in trying to look somewhere, anywhere, else, other than Wade’s nether regions, Peter can’t help but notice something else and blurt out, “you don’t have nipples?”.

 

His ability to dig his own grave astounds even him, by this point.

 

Deadpool snorts. He's now on the opposite side of the bathtub, facing Peter, sprawling in all his glory despite the faucet digging in the back of his skull, arms spread out over the rims of the tub. Rivulets run down their length, and they do in fact look a little pink.

 

“All the better to gross you out, my child.”

 

And – fuck. A thousand thoughts are crossing Peter’s mind at the moment, including irrational anger and possible explanations for how this could have happened, but. None of them are laden with such a thing as disgust. Not for Deadpool’s skin, in any case.

 

Curse Deadpool for not missing a beat on that.

 

“Well, well, well. Looks like the question is, are you hard, Petey? How deliciously perverted of you, lusting after Frankenstein’s monster. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

 

That snaps him right back out of any sort of daze he may have been in.

 

“Stop that.”

 

“Yeah? Which part?”

 

“Both of them.” Peter grits his teeth, “You know we set rules for this. And do you even listen to the way you talk about yourself? That’s so wrong –”

 

“Yeah, yeah, the rules. Which _you_ set, I had nothing to do with that load of shit. Besides? You started it with the questions. What’s a guy gonna do? Ignore you? Chastely look the other way when you pop a boner? You don’t know the things you do to me, baby. Look, I – I know this isn’t for me, okay? You got a little worked up by the, the friction or some shit, I get it…But I _want_ , Petey.”

 

So perhaps the shared bath wasn’t Peter’s most brilliant idea ever. Perhaps it was hypocritical of him, knowing Deadpool was attracted to him, to ask this of him and assume he would keep his hands to himself, if not his comments. But – and as much as Peter doesn’t want to consider a romantic or sexual relationship with this man, for many reasons which are his own and to which he is entitled, fuck this – he’s come to care for Wade a great deal, and the constant self-deprecation has to stop.

 

He thought if he, if they, did this, then maybe it would change something for the better. That Deadpool would start going through the routine of basic self-hygiene again, or notice that his loft is absolute trash these days, even for Deadpool’s infamous standards, and…

 

God, what was he thinking?

 

You don’t cure bouts of depression with one bath. It sounds even more stupid in his own mind, when he puts it like that. The worst part is, some part of him had been convinced that nothing would change. Not Deadpool’s self-neglect, nor their friendship. That maybe Deapdool would only feel a little bit better about himself, a little more cheerful for a while, because, as self-confident and funny as he can be, Wade Wilson is not, in fact, a cheerful person, and Peter has only come to this understanding recently. How many times has Peter seen him smile, really smile, not grin goofily, since they’ve known each other?

 

He can count these times on the fingers of one hand.

 

Peter, selfishly, thought that he could give Deadpool just that small glimpse of happiness and then – what? Have Deadpool go back to his habits? While Peter wouldn't have to care, to be _bothered_ by it, so long as Deadpool's unhappiness happened far from his sight? 

 

Because Wade Wilson makes him feel; all kinds of uncomfortable feelings he has no clue what to do with. He has enough on his plate – the truth is that the level of emotional investment any kind of closeness with Deadpool demands is completely and utterly draining. His friendship is not something that can be half-assed, and Peter sees this, now.

 

The thing is, he’s not sure he’s ready to become that involved in anybody’s life. And even if he were, the world may very well not let him get away with it, and this terrifies him.

 

But, and he shouldn’t be surprised that he can count on Deadpool to remind him of this...he can’t keep taking the happiness this man gives him by his mere ridiculous presence, and give nothing in return.

 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. Then, louder, “Wade, I’m sorry. That was really inappropriate of me.”

 

“It was?” Deadpool asks, “I mean no, duh, Petey. I’m the one who’s fucked – ”

 

“Please don’t finish this sentence.” Peter snaps, a little more harshly that he would like, “I – just don’t, please.”

 

“Right-o?”

 

“Just take my apology, alright? I’m not that good at this, so I don’t want to repeat myself more than necessary. And no, that’s not an encouragement to bug me for more. I’ll understand if you’d rather stop this now, and it’s a shitty excuse, but I want to do this for you. Maybe it’s not what friends normally do, but it’s not like either of us are anywhere near normal, yeah?”

 

“I still don’t get why you’re so hung up on that, to be honest.” Deadpool sighs, gesturing at the water in a move that’s probably meant to encompass the bath and the both of them and this whole situation, all at once.

 

“I can’t explain. Sorry.” Not in any way that would put an end to the awkwardness between them, he can’t.

 

For a moment, Peter is met only with sullen silence.

 

“Alright.” Deadpool finally sighs, “I think I still have soap bubbles in my ear anyway. Let’s do this.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah, sure, Petey-Pie. Unless you’ve changed your mind already?”

 

Shaking his head, Peter scrambles to say: “I haven’t. Didn’t. Change my mind, that is.” He hesitates, then adds, “This can’t mean anything, though. I mean –”

 

“Don’t fry your pretty little head. No homo. This is a one hundred percent bromantic bath between two bros who are secure enough in their masculinity to flaunt their junk in front of each other and give the UST the manly one-finger salute because they are bros and it’s totally Not-Like-That. I get it.”

 

Peter understands most of that gibberish, and the rueful little smile helps him get the gist of the rest. It doesn’t escape his notice that only one of them is ‘flaunting his junk’ as DP so elegantly put it, and that there is probably an insult to his masculinity somewhere in there.

 

…he may have deserved that.

 

He smiles, because yeah, okay, this whole thing does sound pretty ridiculous when you put it like that.

 

“Okay.”

 

“So yeah, how do you want me? Should I come over there or…”

 

Peter has a retort on the tip of his tongue and he’s going to say it, he really is, but then he thinks better of it.

 

“Actually, no. You know what, let’s drain this off and just run another bath. I don’t know about you, but I’m starting not to feel my toes anymore.” The water had been steadily turning colder and colder during their talk, and Peter has reached the point where he can’t easily ignore it anymore, let alone its color. The latter he doesn’t mention, out of good manners.

 

“Thank  _fuck_ for that!” Deadpool says, jumping up to his feet and watching on amusedly as Peter fumbles to cover his eyes, “I was getting sick of bits of my own gore poking me in the ass.”

 

One such bit of bloodied skin floats up to him, and Deadpool gets distracted an instant, sailing it around with his foot to draw the vague shape of a penis. Unless it’s a crooked poodle. Who knows, with him?

 

Peter freezes.

 

“Wait, you mean you don’t like the blood?”

 

“Not when it’s trying its damnedest to crawl up my asshole, I don’t! Why?”

 

Peter gapes at him. “ _Are you kidding me?_ Why didn’t you say something?!”

 

“Eh, wasn’t going to be the one who pooped out first. Besides, it was way too funny watching you freak out.” Deadpool shrugs, “Why didn’t _you_?”

 

Peter’s doesn’t reply: he’s ninety-five percent sure his mind just self-destructed. Blinking, he lets himself be hauled out of the water and into Deadpool’s waiting arms, flinching instinctively when they move, expecting a slap on the ass or something else to the same effect as earlier today, when he stripped down to his boxers. Instead, he’s draped in a fluffy Hello Kitty bathrobe three sizes too large for him and plopped onto the sink with a kiss to the forehead and a ruffle of his hair, before Deadpool turns back to the tub and fishes around for its plug.

 

“I could do that.” Peter says, only to have Deadpool shush him, not even turning back to face Peter. He starts humming some annoying catchy song while they wait for the water to drain.

 

“Hey, isn’t that the song with all the countries?”

 

“Isn’t that the song with the countries, he asks! Why yes, you philistine, it is! I’ll have you know that I was going for the Mexican Hat Dance version, the only one that matters in my books. You Yankees and your cultural appropriation.”

 

Peter shrugs, “I thought you’d be the type who likes the Animaniacs.”

 

“Oh, I love the Animaniacs!” Deadpool screeches, complete with a hands-cup-cheeks gesture and a Princess Diaries foot pop. Peter shakes his head, amused despite himself. “Only shows that trump that are Freakazoid and The Tick. Freaking Tick.”

 

“What about SpongeBob?” Peter asks, suddenly feeling a bit insulted on behalf of his favorite childhood cartoon.

 

Deadpool does look up then, staring like he’s seeing, really seeing, Peter for the first time, and what he finds there warrants his pity.

 

“You _lamb_. I forgot I had the hots for bloody Bambi, no thanks for reminding me, nerd.”

 

That doesn’t stop him from switching to the SpongeBob SquarePants opening theme next, as Peter doesn’t fail to notice.

 

His stomach must have suddenly gained radioactive-spider-induced superpowers, because it does a weird little backflip.

 

Peter glances at Deadpool, thanking all the gods that be that he’s still bent over the bathtub, watching the water drain, and subsequently hasn’t caught the deer in the headlights look on Peter’s face. Then he flinches and drops his gaze, because Deadpool  _is still bent over the bathtub_ and a whole lot of skin, taut and heavily muscled, is being displayed.

 

The Hello Kitty print on his borrowed bathrobe only seems to taunt him.

 

The bathtub finally empties itself with a dying gurgle, and Wade, bending further, grabs the shower head and starts spraying the last remains of blood.

 

Peter hates his life.

 

To distract himself, he looks around the bathroom and tries to think of something – anything – serious, professional and safe. Like neutrons. And protons. Neutrons and protons attracting each other. On second thought, maybe science is not the appropriate remedy to his current…situation.

 

There’s nothing for it.

 

He clears his throat. “Hey, can I have a look at your medical cabinets?”

 

“Snoop your little heart away, babe!” Deadpool exclaims back.

 

“Thanks.” Peter croaks out, standing up and resolutely not thinking of spying at anything else other than the contents of bathroom furniture, which sounds a lot more like sexual innuendo than it ever should. “Also, DP?”

 

“Yeah?” Wade drawls, drawing the entire word out until it sounds like three separate syllables.

 

 _You’re losing your mind_ , Peter tells himself as he opens one of the aforementioned cabinets.

 

“Towel. Now.”

 

“Oh? Oh. Oooooooooohhh. You mean towel. Right. Right away, shnookums! I knew I could count on you to have my back!”

 

“Yeah, you know me. I’ve got you covered, and all.”

 

Peter doesn’t even mind the ridiculous flirting, much. Not when Deadpool erupts in chortles that sound punched out of him and deliciously honest. It’s a sound he could do with hearing all the time, winded wheezes and all.

 

“I can think of another way or two I’d rather have you cover me, sweetie.”

 

The leer is entirely too evident in his voice, and it makes Peter regret everything, and also, not.

 

“Mmh. I think I’ll pass, thanks.” He can hear some movement behind him, indicating that Deadpool is probably grabbing that towel, and Peter spares a moment to fervently hope he doesn’t pick something ridiculously short like a washcloth, before throwing that trail of thought out of the window entirely and drawing the curtains on it.

 

He returns his attention to the cabinets, to find them devoid of anything remotely resembling specialized skin products, despite his hopes (this would have made his search considerably easier, and also, Peter is poor). The soap, it seems, was a fluke, and instead, Peter locates numerous shampoos, including strawberry, peach, and other fruity wonders, but also cotton candy and things whose names sound quoted straight out of sub-par porn, making him think Deadpool picked them only for that reason.

 

Next is a collection of outlandish products with labels written in some sort of Asian alphabet, maybe Japanese. He’s more surprised than he should be to discover that one of those is shaped as a blushing Spider-Man tsum tum.

 

They all look full and brand new, so Peter pegs them down to Deadpool’s weird obsession for pop culture and its paraphernalia.

 

The sheer number of shampoos for a man who doesn’t have any body hair has him more puzzled.

 

“See anything you like?”

 

Hands descend on his waist, pulling him back and against a familiar body. Their hold on him is the only reason he doesn’t shoot up to the ceiling and stick himself up there.

 

“Damnit, Deadpool!”

 

“The bath is ready, luv. The author thinks the shit in those other cabinets is too scary for her not-so-virginal readers’ eyes and besides, you’ve been blocking out my words for way too many paragraphs. Oh, you found Spidey? D’you wanna bring him to the bath?”

 

“NO!” Peter blurts out, doing a decent impression of his plastic alter-ego, only redder. “Absolutely not, no! Not now! Never! No!”

 

“Aww, shame. Was looking forward to breaking him in with yo _eeeeoow!_ Hey! What was that for?!”

 

“You being an idiot.” Peter deadpans, walking around Deadpool – who did put on a decent-sized towel – and next to the bathtub. He kneels down, dipping a hand in the water to test the temperature. It is, perhaps unsurprisingly, scalding hot.

 

“I was going for ‘emasculating’, actually.” Is Deadpool’s reply when Peter tells him just that.

 

 

 

“Just so we’re clear,” Peter says as they enter the water, “Cuddling is a go. No flirting, pet names, or otherwise indecent behavior, or this is off. This is test run 2.0. Got it?”

 

“What about farts? How do you rate them on an indecency scale? A four? Miley Cyrus on the MTV Video Music Awards 2015 edition? Do tell.”

 

“If you fart in the water, I’m kicking you out.”

 

“Ah.”

 

 

*

 

 

“It’s not about you being able to take it.” Peter fumes, taking out the bullet fragment with undue force, like it’s done him a personal offense. Knowing how deep it’s been buried in squishy flesh, it may as well have. “It’s about not inflicting unnecessary damage upon yourself.”

 

Blood spurts from the wound at the same time as the piece of metal. It joins the mess already dyeing their suits and Deadpool’s sofa. Unhygienic, but Peter has other priorities, and will probably end up wiping it up with paper-towels like the ones littering up the coffee table between socks, Play Boys and his battered first-aid kit, later.

 

“Ow!”

 

“Oh, sorry.” Peter says, saccharine sweet, “I guess I wasn’t paying enough attention.”

 

“No walkin’ into op’n fire on Tuesdays for this Pool. Roger that, nurse Spidey, sir. Now can you – ouchie!”

 

Peter hums, viciously pleased.

 

One out, six to go.

 

 

*

 

 

 

It takes time, some advice from MJ, and a small favor from his Aunt May whose good friend at work is a pharmacist (it’s for a good cause), but he finally manages to set his plan into action.

 

Added to that the savings he’s been accumulating dollar after painstaking dollar from the second job he’s been taking at the local convenience store, well. These days Peter runs entirely on coffee and adrenaline, but all of that will be worth it when he drops by Wade’s place.

 

But not right now.

 

Right now, Peter is in great need of a nap.

 

 

 

He lets himself in through Deadpool’s window as Spider-Man, because as much as the neighborhood’s motto seems to be ‘do not see do not hear’, somebody is due to eventually notice that the only people always coming and going from the Merc with a mouth’s apartment these days are New York’s own heroic wall-crawler and one weird kid with a bad case of bed hair.

 

And even though this doesn’t necessarily equate to ‘this civilian and Spider-Man are one and the same’ in most people’s mind (after the first few close calls, Peter stopped counting the number of times his enemies came up with vastly outlandish explanations for it, and now just expects idiocy from everyone in this city); the other option, as in ‘this kid is doing the walk of shame’, is not something he wants to deal with either. Nor is ‘he’s a junkie who’s doing the walk of shame.’

 

And he knows those are the conclusions neighbors will jump to, nine times out of ten. He owns some neighbors of his own, after all.

 

Not _owns_ owns. This makes it sound like he’s abducting people and hiding them away in his living room. Who would even do that?

 

The latch is not bolted, since Deadpool doesn’t have any actual use for security. Anybody entering this place uninvited with nefarious intentions would likely leave it in three separate pieces, and now that he thinks about it, he ought to do the community a favor and just lock it tonight on his way out. For now, he decides just closing it will do.

 

Landing on his feet with barely a sound, Peter lifts his mask up to his nose and takes in a breath. As functional as the mask may be, it never fails to make him feel a bit claustrophobic, and he likes to take it off whenever he gets a choice in the matter.

 

A look around the open space reveals its unoccupied state.

 

“DP?”

 

No reply, so Peter shrugs and makes his way to the fridge, taking his phone out of his backpack as he goes and tapping in a message.

 

**Stopped by. Brought U something. Where R U???**

His phone vibrates with a reply while he’s sizing up the fridge’s contents. He opts for a container of chocolate chip cookies, with a sticky-note on it telling him in red and black crayon ‘FOR LOVE CUPCAKE’. Small hearts are drawn all around the script, as well as – Peter snorts – two sticky-legged figures going at it. Male, by the look of it. Even the one that’s probably meant to be Deadpool and appears to be wearing a skirt, its red sticky-dick leaving nothing to the imagination.

 

He walks back to the brand new sofa, phone and container in each hand. Once settled, his backpack abandoned somewhere at his feet, Peter checks his phone. It’s been giving him notifications nonstop, informing him of Deadpool’s lack of chill with being ignored for even a second.

 

**Taking out trash. Back soon make URself @home <3 <3 xoxo**

**Cookies in the fridge**

**OH. EM. GEEEE wat is it wat is it wa tis it???**

 

The last text, the most obscure yet, informs him that:

 

**We can switch**

 

By which Peter thinks he’s trying to say what he _thinks_ he’s trying to say. Which is a confusing thing to be trying to say, even to one’s own mind. What he thinks _Wade_ is trying to do is to talk about sex, and Peter is not opening that can of worms, even when lured with cookies and educational illustrations.

 

**Found them. Thx**

 

He types back, referring to the cookies. The rest he ignores in favor of opening the container and taking one of the cookies out. Then, as an afterthought, he adds:

 

**You’ll see**

 

He spends the evening comfortably settled on the couch, doing his homework with his laptop perched on his crossed knees, and only the occasional urge to stretch. Patrolling later today sounds like a good idea for exercise. It’s been way too long since he had a decent session; now that he’s gained back some modicum of free time, he’s thinking of kicking some baddies’ asses to dissuade them from getting any ideas.

 

Peter’s phone beeps again.

 

**On my way. I better find ur fine ass™ when I get in Or Else**

 

Peter scoffs. When is he not at Deadpool’s place, these days? He has his own closet compartment with a few spare clothes, his own, dare he say functional, cheap, bath products, which Deadpool is strictly forbidden from even approaching, and he’s taken over the bathroom organizational system, which only really means that he set one up because someone apparently favors ‘but it looked pretty’ over ‘do I actually need it’ as a reason to spend money and cannot be trusted.

 

In other words: Deadpool is a serial impulse buyer. What else is new?

 

 

*

 

 

 

Peter has been coming to terms with things. He’s also realized that what he wants from life may not be something teenaged Peter Parker would ever have given a passing thought.

 

“Can I wash you today?” Two incredibly earnest - given that no eyebrows are present to help read their intent - pupils, look at him.

 

Peter meets their gaze, maps the shadows that pass over them as the crappy lightbulb above them flickers.

 

“I don’t know...” he kisses Wade’s brow. How the man always manages to wrap himself around the crook of Peter’s neck, when he’s at least one head taller than Peter, he doesn’t have a clue. “Maybe next time.”

 

“But you promised, Petey-Pie.” He pleads. “You said if I didn’t unalive that dude…I don’t want next time. I want today. Please…”

 

Peter runs the washcloth over the man’s nape, around the side of his neck.

 

“You _were_ rather good, earlier, weren’t you? You did so well. Listened so well. Maybe you do deserve a reward, hmm?”

 

“Please.”

 

And so responsive, too. Always ready to beg for any scrap of attention Peter may consent to give him. It gets to Peter. Hard. He bites his lips and lets Wade press closer, _touch_ him from the tip of his fingers through the boxers and retreat just as fast, like a naughty child trying to steal candy and knowing he’s going to be punished for it. When no reprimand comes forth, the fingers get daring again, exploring hesitantly, then suddenly roughly fisting his cock.

 

Peter’s voice breaks in his throat. “Wade –”

 

The fingers give him an encouraging pump.

 

“You –” Peter chokes, his head lolling back against the wall. There’s a ‘splash’ somewhere from where the washcloth dropped into the bath. “Gimme” Wade demands against the shell of his ear. And. “Want you.”

 

“Wait. We should – rules first –”

 

“ _Fuck_ the rules.” Wade tells him with feeling. Peter barks out a laugh, which turns into a groan as teeth graze at the skin beneath his neck, then latch on.

 

“Rules!” Peter’s mouth insists.

 

That other mouth eventually stops doing things to his skin that make him want to offer more for worship. It gives the abused spot a single lick. “Go on then, with your rules.” Wade indulges him. It would be incredibly sweet, only the last word he utters the same way some people say ‘broccoli’.

 

“No sex.” Peter’s mind immediately supplies.

 

Wade closes his eyes. Whatever he’s experiencing, it looks painful.

 

“The boxers go off.”

 

“No sex.” Peter repeats.

 

“Yeah, you take off the thing, and you got yourself a deal, Baby Boy. I want to touch you. I can touch you, right?” He crowds Peter, “I’ve been a good boy?”

 

“You’ve been insufferable.” Peter admits. “But fine.”

 

“What about those other rules of yours?” Wade asks, and that...yeah.

 

Peter wraps his arms around his nape, pulls him close. “Wade.” He says, pleasantly.

 

“Uh?”

 

“You’ve earned yourself another reward.” He tips his head just a little higher, just a little closer, until Wade goes crossed-eyed looking at the parted “o” of his lips.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.” Teasing, teasing, and retreating.

 

And, God, but does crestfallen look good on Wade.

 

“Petey!” He whines.

 

“I know, love.” Peter shushes him, petting at the skin of his nape in consolation. He’s shivering with need, and Peter loves it. “I know. Come here…”

 

It actually takes some time to get Wade to bend closer again, his gaze narrowed, suspicious; thinking he’s going to be denied at the very last moment again. Peter leans in this time.

 

“You’re a cruel, cruel spide – ” Wade tells him. The rest gets swallowed into Peter’s mouth as he molds himself to Wade's chest, trying to get Wade’s tongue to come out and play. It stays lax under his, so he sets out to explore his mouth instead, licks at the top row of Wade’s teeth, smiling.

 

He pecks at Wade’s lips. One, two, flitting kisses, that Wade meets him halfway for when he catches onto what is going on. His arms bracket Peter, wrap around him, with no apparent intention of ever letting go. That’s another thing he loves, Peter finds out, a spike of pleasure shooting up through his spine.

 

...Feeling trapped, uh.

 

That’s an information to store away for another day.

 

“Love,” he tries. Wade is peppering kisses against his neckline. “Wade, sweetheart...” A tongue dips in his mouth. He greets it, because that’s only the polite thing to do, right? But how to stop greeting it, that’s the question.

 

“Donald Trump.”

 

His spider-sense goes haywire just in time to allow him to block the punch.

 

“Is that who you think you’re kissing? Because then I’m worried – for _you_ – but also, for me! Goddammit, Petey, and now you killed the mood!”

 

“You have to admit it was a great attention grabber. I…Rule number 2: Time’s up on the kissing.”

 

“You just made that up now!”

 

“I did, didn’t I?”

 

“But I _want_ to kiss you more. You got a head start. That’s cheating!” Wade pouts.

 

“That’s too bad, Mr. Wilson. Look – that’s just what you get for being all sexily sensitive and pro-consensual. Work on it some more if you want to maybe get a few gold stars in the future. This is still just a bath, okay?”

 

“But I didn’t even get to touch your ass!”

 

Peter snorts. He grabs the sodden washcloth and flings it at Wade’s face. “Then I guess you’ll just have to be extra caring with the washing, dummy.”

 

He wishes he had his camera at hand to immortalize Wade’s flabbergasted expression. Maybe egging him on is a bad idea, but Peter will take what works. Who ever said you shouldn’t mix work and play?

 

“Now, I think we were going to take these off. Why don’t you grab the soap? No, the other one. I don’t want that garbage to come anywhere near your skin ever again, get rid of it. Take the one I bought you instead, you know? Yes, you do. Like the sample we tested, don’t be dumb. And if you’re lucky, I might give you a massage later. Shall we start?”

 

So, yes, Peter definitely does enjoy things he never thought he would. His chances of falling in love with the most beautiful and perfect young woman to walk the Earth and marrying her, of having two point five kids and a dog, of revolutionizing the scientific world and buying Aunt May a cottage with his earnings, of working at NASA and having the president shake his hand, are looking bad so far.

 

But that’s okay.

 

 

*

 

 

 

He finds it as Peter Parker is taking the long way to the subway. A girl hands him a flyer, which he doesn’t know how to refuse without sounding like a grade A jerk. He’s going to pocket it and forget all about its existence until the washing machine spits it back in shreds, when he's hit by its scent.

 

Locating the shop requires some more walking – the girl wasn’t positioned in front of it, as it turns out, but the same scent cloys and calls at his sensitive sense of smell, impossible to ignore.

 

Inside, it’s worse. A rainbow of colors and smells and people who unlike him, all know exactly what they seem to be doing here, and contrary to what he would have thought, the clientele isn’t mostly limited to young women and girls who all look like they could be beauty YouTubers, not by a long shot. Peter definitely spots a guy or two talking at length about the kind of products they’re looking to be buying _for themselves_ , which makes him feel a little less awkward about just standing there.

 

A shop clerk eventually takes pity on him and asks him if it’s his first time coming here and if he knows the store’s concept. They demonstrate a few of the products, which all look fine, but also like slices of cheesecake, to him, and Peter shakes his head at one after the other until she presents him a dish full of what, to him, is only big blue balls, and shows him exactly what it is that they do, with a sample and a stock pot, telling him about their composition, and Peter _knows_.

 

“I think I’ll take one. Or two.” He pauses, thinks better of it. “Actually, let’s make that a dozen? Can we do that?”

 

“Oh, we definitely can,” the employee grins.

 

Later, as he’s handing his credit card to her colleague – a young man with blue hair and a lip piercing, this time – said colleague looks up at him, mirth in his eyes, and asks:

 

“For the missus?”

 

“Actually, he’s a mister.”

 

 _But he’s won’t say no to a dress_ , he doesn’t add.

 

“Ah.” The employee nods sagely, lips twitching up, and hands him his bag. It almost makes up for the hit his bank account is going to take.

 

An alarm starts blaring from somewhere down the street just as he’s heading out, people running and screaming – apparently there’s been a robbery while he was doing his shopping – and Peter sighs, looking for an abandoned alleyway to drop his belongings and change into his suit.

 

Life goes on.

 

But now, it’s filled with Intergalactic bath bombs.

 

 

 

 

_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> The song with the countries: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x88Z5txBc7w
> 
> Deadpool's artful doodle is based off a magnificient tweet everyone wanted Ryan Reynolds to see. If someone has a link to the thing, please let me know and I'll add it in the notes.
> 
> I'm afraid Deadpool's lack of nipples was inspired by too much staring at his naked torso in comic panels.


End file.
